Homecoming
by ceb
Summary: CARBY standalone- a season ten "what if?"


"Homecoming" (for want of a more original title)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ER, I don't own any of these characters, I do however own one of Abby's beloved USMLE books that I really should get back to reading soon… sigh…   
AUTHOR'S RAMBLINGS: This is a silly fic, set sometime between "Touch and Go" and "Midnight". This is my attempt to undo TPTB's mess in season ten. It came out of something I suggested on the C&P board tongue-in-cheek way-back-when. I wanted to write some light relief from the character assassination that was last season. I hope you enjoy. Please let me know if you do or you don't!   
THANKS BE TO: Everyone who has reviewed my previous fics, you are all far too kind to me. And I will finish "Losing Grip" one day soon, honest… 

One hour, twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds 'till my shift ends. Not that I'm counting or anything. Some days I wonder why I went back to med school or maybe why I ever started in the first place. I've been here for eleven hours, I was here for fifteen yesterday and I caught around four hours sleep in the eight hour gap in between. And waiting for me at home are no less than three hefty USMLE textbooks. Take me out back and shoot me now.   
"Abby?" It's Pratt. "What happened to the chest pain in two?"   
I rub my eyes sleepily, "Mr. Wells? I gave him nitro times three and I'm waiting on a consult."   
"He's not there anymore."   
"What?"   
"I wondered if you'd moved him," Pratt asks.   
"Why would I do that?"   
He senses I'm agitated and shrugs in response. "I'll ask Chuny," he says and moves away.   
One hour, nineteen minutes and five seconds.   
I pick up the next chart: yeast infection. Lovely.   
"Abby?" It's Frank. Now what?   
"Hmm?"   
"Phone call for you."   
I take the receiver.   
"Hello?"   
"Abby?" The voice sounds a long way off and the line is crackly.   
"Carter?"   
"Oh thank God! It's so good to be able to talk to you again, are you okay?"   
What does he mean "talk to you again"?   
"Carter the line's bad, where are you?"   
"I'm calling from Kinshasa, I got away last night and…"   
"Kinshasa?!" I interrupt. Has Kem persuaded him to go back with her at the last minute? "Don't you have a shift today?" I ask incredulously.   
"What are you talking about?" he asks. "I got away last night, a group of rebels have been holding me for weeks now, I never thought I'd see you again, I just…" his voice breaks, I think he's crying.   
"Is this some kind of joke John? 'Cause it's really not the best time."   
"Huh? No, Abby I'm coming home! I'll be in at O'Hare at 10p.m. tomorrow."   
"Carter, I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't have time to figure it out, I have to get back to work."   
I replace the receiver. What the hell was that about? Is he trying to twist the knife further with crank calls now?   
Susan walks over and notices my perplexed expression.   
"Everything okay?" she asks.   
"Is Carter on today?"   
"Yeah, he got in a few minutes ago, he was just helping me in trauma two."   
"That's impossible," I state.   
She looks at me quizzically. "Bad MVA," she replies, "he assisted with a little girl. Are you feeling alright?"   
And suddenly Carter walks up to the desk and asks Frank a question. He sees me watching him and smiles politely. I don't get it.   
"Just going quietly mad," I tell Susan.   
"County'll do that to you," she says knowingly before walking away.   
"Abby?" It's Frank again.   
"Phone," he states.   
"Take a message," I tell him. 

I'm very glad to get home a little over an hour later. I must need sleep more than I thought, maybe I'll have to pass on the studying for tonight. As I open the door I'm met by the answer machine screaming at me. Twenty-three messages. They're all from Carter.   
"Abby? Abby are you there? Listen, I get in tomorrow night, ten o'clock at O'Hare. Several weeks ago a group of rebels attacked the medical centre in Matenda. They took four of us hostage. They shot the first guy on the spot. The second guy passed away two days ago. The guard was down as they dealt with the body and Jack and I took a chance and ran. I… I thought I'd never see you again… please Abby, meet me at O'Hare tomorrow…"   
"Abby? Abby? Maybe you're still at work. I'll try again later."   
"Abby? Please don't be mad about how I left. I've regretted it every day since and all I've wanted to do since is tell you I'm sorry… I've missed you so much…."   
I sit stunned listening to babbled message after babbled message. I've never heard anyone so distraught.   
Finally message twenty-three rolls around.   
"Abby… I love you…" his voice breaks, I can hear him crying and then the line goes dead.   
And I realize my own cheeks are tear stained. I don't understand what's happening. Is this some kind of elaborate prank? A quick check on the caller ID establishes that the calls originated from the Congo. But the voice sounds just like Carter, I'd know that voice anywhere. 

I'm interrupted from my reverie by the phone ringing again. I snatch it from the wall quickly.   
"Abby?" It's Susan.   
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.   
"Hi."   
"Hey, I just thought I'd check up on you, you seemed a bit spaced out earlier."   
I toy with telling her about the strange calls for a second but decide against it. "I'm fine Susan, just a little tired."   
"Okay, if you're sure."   
"Are you still at work?" I ask.   
"Yeah, Weaver's on the war path again."   
"Is Carter still there?"   
"Yes, do you want me to get him?"   
"No," I reply quickly.   
Susan sighs. "Abby, if that's what this is about then you should talk to him, I know you miss him and I think in all honesty he misses you too."   
"I have to go to bed," I tell her, "thanks for calling."   
"Okay, take care."   
At that I stagger tiredly into my bedroom and collapse into a dreamless sleep.

I'm woken by the phone less than an hour later. I pad across to the couch where the source of the infernal ringing lays.   
"Hello?" I speak groggily.   
"Abby! Don't hang up."   
"I'm getting a little sick of this. I don't know who you are or how you're pulling this elaborate stunt but I'd appreciate it if you stopped."   
"Stunt? What stunt?"   
"Magically calling from the Congo whilst also pulling a double at County."   
"Pulling a what?" he asks incredulously.   
"A double. You know, two shifts back to back, which incidentally is what I have starting tomorrow night so I'd like to go back to bed now if you don't mind," I say sarcastically.   
"How can I be in Chicago when I'm here?" he asks, confused.   
"My point exactly."   
"Abby _this_ is John. Ask me anything and I'll prove it."   
I lean back against the cushions and try to think of a question with which to humour him. "Okay, what did we talk about on the beach that day? After the lockdown." I don't recall mentioning that to anyone else.   
"I rambled about chaos theory, the whole butterfly and the tornado deal. I told you that I thought you were chaos in general… and then you took all your clothes off, jumped in the lake and proved me right."   
I smile briefly at the memory. "Maybe Carter told someone that," I answer suspiciously.   
"Abby, it's _me_, I told you on the way back from Oklahoma that I used to have a perm and you've never let me live it down since, you take your coffee with cream and no sugar, you prefer dried flowers to fresh ones, you have a mole just under your tummy button, I made a pitiful attempt at proposing to you on County's roof and..."   
"And returned from the Congo with a pregnant girlfriend in tow."   
"What?!"   
"The name "Kem" doesn't ring any bells?"   
"Abby I don't know who you're talking about. There's nobody else, do you really think I could replace you that quickly? What do you think I did? Knocked someone up the minute I got here?"   
This is too much. "Okay Carter."   
"Do you believe me?"   
"I don't know what's going on. I'm supposed to have a shift tomorrow night but I'll be there, ten o'clock at O'Hare."   
"Thank you," he's crying in earnest now, "thank you."   
"I'll see you tomorrow John, good night."   
Colour me confused. Is there really even the remotest possibility that the hell of the past few weeks has all been fake? That Carter has really been tied up in the jungle somewhere whilst a doppleganger walked County's halls? This is ludicrous and yet I want nothing more than for it to be true. For him to be coming back to me, for there to be noone else, for the nightmare I've been living to dissolve away. 

Thirty minutes later I'm back in the ER.   
Susan gives me an astonished look as she watches my determined path towards the lounge. I mutter an excuse about having forgotten my purse.   
Lady luck is with me tonight as on opening the door I spy him sprawled on the sofa.   
"Abby!" Carter, or whoever the hell he may be, exclaims. "I thought you left."   
"I did," I tell him, repeating the lie, "I left my purse,"   
He nods and turns back to his coffee.   
"Umm," I begin, feigning discomfort, "this is a little awkward but I found this in the apartment yesterday and thought I should return it, it's yours after all."   
I hand over my favourite Pixies CD.   
"Thanks," he replies happily, "I was wondering where that had gotten to."   
I close the locker and smile quickly at him. "You know I can't stand that noise anyway."   
He grins, "No taste Abby, no taste at all."   
"See you tomorrow," I tell him before exiting the lounge.   
I walk over to the admit desk purposefully. Susan is still standing there, reviewing a chart.   
She lifts her face to meet mine, "Did you find it?"   
"What?"   
"Your purse."   
"Oh," I reply, "Yeah."   
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks worriedly.   
"I'm fine," I assure her. "But Carter looks a little under the weather. Do me a favour and watch him closely this shift, just check he doesn't make any crazy mistakes?"   
"Sure."   
"Thanks, goodnight."

On my way out I pass Chuny.   
"Are you working tomorrow?"   
"Eight 'til eight," she replies.   
"Can I switch with you?" I ask.   
"When's your shift?"   
"Ten o'clock."   
"AM?" she inquires.   
"PM," I tell her grudgingly.   
"An overnight?" She exclaims.   
"Please Chuny, I have to be somewhere."   
"Abby, I don't know, I sorta had…"   
"Please Chuny," I beg, eyes pleading her to do this for me, "I'll work all your overnights for the next week."   
She raises an eyebrow. "Gee, this must be really important to you."   
"It is," I say earnestly.   
"Okay," she reluctantly accepts.   
"Thank you," I tell her, eyes shining, "I'll see you the day after tomorrow." And with that I hurry out of the doors before she figures out that I was scheduled to work a double. 

My head spins as I sit on the el, watching the lights of the city whizz by. I'm still numb from the day's events; from the possibility, no matter how remote, that my life could be about to change for the better. Only now am I finally realizing just how much I have missed him being in my life. I lost my boyfriend and my best friend when he disappeared and I still haven't gotten over that. I attempted to fill the void by going back to medical school, throwing myself into academic work hoping to prevent my thoughts from wandering in a less productive direction. It didn't work. I miss him now as much as ever. It's long past midnight as the el glides to a stop at my station. I shuffle off the train and down towards the street wondering how I'm going to stop myself from going mad between now and his plane touching down. 

On entering the apartment I'm wide awake. The phone conversation runs through my mind repeatedly as I fumble around in the half-light, piling up books and dusting shelves which aren't dusty. Figuring that I can harness this nervous energy in a more productive way I sit down at the dining table, textbook in hand. After ten minutes of re-reading the same paragraph I realize that it's pointless, the cerebellum is failing to engage my attention tonight. Who am I kidding? The cerebellum has never succeeded in gaining my interest. I push the text aside and fill the kettle instead. A few moments later I'm snuggled up on the sofa, cup of tea in hand with my green blanket spread across my legs. I point the remote at the TV and the screen flickers to life. A glance at my watch informs me that it's almost two a.m. Infomercials, it's just you and me kid.

Despite my frenetic mind I must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing I know there's sunlight streaming through my window and "Good Morning America" is on TV. Shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, I stand and pad over to the coffee machine. As I wait for the brew I step into the shower and enjoy the feel of the scalding water pounding my reddened skin. 

A few minutes later I'm changed and nursing a cup of hot java. The liquid burns in my throat but I don't care. All I can think about is getting through my shift and dashing off to O'Hare. When the coffee is gone, I grab the keys and head out of the door, impatient to get the day started. 

As I walk through the familiar double doors I'm greeted by Weaver.   
"Abby? I didn't know you're working today."   
"I switched shifts with Chuny," I inform her.   
"Oh, okay," she replies, turning back to her chart.   
I glance up at the board which is unusually empty. Typical. The one day when I wouldn't mind a barrage of traumas to come through the doors so that I can get stuck in and let the time fly by and the damn place is slow.   
After depositing my jacket in my locker I walk up to the front desk and grab the nearest chart. Dog bite to the hand. I head for exam three and spy the teenage boy guarding his hand.   
"Hi there…" I glance back at the chart, "Michael, can you tell me what happened?"   
"What the hell does it look like?" he replies insolently, "the neighbour's frickin' dog attacked me!"   
Ignoring his attitude I look at the wound. It barely needs a band aid. This is going to be a long day. 

Two hours later and, for possibly the first time in history, the board is clear. Susan and Luka are sat around in admit enjoying the respite. I, on the other hand, can hardly bare it.   
"Abby! Sit down for a second, you're making me dizzy!' Susan says gently.   
I pause in my pacing and glance at her. "Do you need anything doing? Labs retrieving? Charts finishing?"   
"Abby, take a look," she states, indicating the blank board.   
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Luka chips in, sipping his coffee.   
I smile tightly. "I just like to be busy," I tell him.   
"Are you okay?" Susan asked, her voice laced with concern, "you seem tense today."   
"I'm fine," I assure her before smiling and walking away to find something, anything to do.   
"Do you believe her?" I hear Luka ask Susan as I make for the empty trauma room.   
"Not really," she replies.   
"What do you think is the matter?" he asks.   
"Who knows?" she responds, sighing, "Abby has so many insecurities, they fight for prominence."

Another hour later, I'm standing in the drug lock up and it's _still_ quiet. It's a conspiracy, it has to be.   
"Abby." It's Susan. She gives me an amused look. "What are you doing?"   
I smile, embarrassed, "reorganizing the supplies closet," I admit.   
"Gee, you _are_ bored. Well, I've come to rescue you."   
I look up from the vancomycin I was reshuffling.   
"MVA rolling up now."   
It's music to my ears. 

Five minutes later I'm engrossed in my work. The thirty year old guy was plowed into by a minivan on LaSalle. He's got a compound tib-fib fracture but more worryingly he's not moving air anywhere near as well as we'd like.   
"Pulse ox is 82," I tell Luka as I turn and hunt for a catheter.   
"He needs intubation," Luka tells me and I abandon my search and pass him a laryngoscope instead.   
Frank steps into the room and says there's a call for me.   
"Can't you see she's a little preoccupied right now?" Luka exclaims as he tries not to shatter the guy's pearly whites, "take a message." He turns his attention back to me, "tube."   
I hand him the ET tube as Frank leaves, mumbling to himself.   
"Okay, I'm in, bag her."   
I attach the Ambu bag and squeeze it a few times.   
"Good breath sounds," Luka states, completing his auscultation.   
"How's the other driver doing?" I ask.   
"He coded," Susan replies as she slams through the doors and pulls off her gown. "Is this guy gonna make it?"   
"He's stable but he needs to get up to surgery," Luka replies.   
"So much for our quiet day." 

It remains busy until two-thirty when I'm finally able to slink away for a lunch break. When I reach Ike's I realize that I'm not all that hungry so I grab a coffee to go and decide to take a walk. Without thinking I automatically head to the river and towards what I've come to regard as "our" bench. I sit down, look out over the water and immediately feel very alone. I've never got used to sitting on this bench solo and I probably never will. Glancing up to the sky I think about the plane carrying him across the Atlantic at this very moment. God, this had better not be a hoax. I don't think I could bear it. I think about him for a few moments longer before draining my latte and heading back to County. 

Sam greets me with a smile upon my return. "Pablo's back," she informs me.   
Ahh, Pablo, you gotta love the frequent fliers. Seriously, if we gave out air miles, Pablo would have earnt himself a ticket to Sydney by now.   
"He's asking for you," Sam says.   
"Really?" I inquire, raising an eyebrow.   
"Okay, so no, but Susan said you've been energizer bunny-like all day."   
"I'll take him," I tell her, picking up the chart and heading off.   
"Thanks," she shouts back at me.

A half hour later I emerge from Pablo's exam room. That was a bad move. This time, Pablo had crabs. Granted, I said I was bored, but not desperate. 

For the rest of my shift I'm shuffled off to man triage. Normally, I would curse Weaver for landing me here for several hours, but today it's perfect. A constant stream of patients is exactly what I need. 

It's coming on seven-thirty and I'm getting more and more nervous about my impending visit to the airport. I'm sat biting my nails in between seeing patients when Weaver hollers to me to come help in the trauma room. The patient is a forty-five year old, father of two in cardiac arrest. He's no family history of coronary heart disease, he's never smoked and he's run three miles before work every morning since he was twenty-three. Some people are just unlucky. Sadly, for this man, all the aspirin and heparin in the world aren't going to help him. He's been down for forty-five minutes.   
"Okay, call it," Weaver says gently and I stop compressions.   
"Is that the family?" I ask, gesturing to where a slender blonde woman is standing, nervously clutching a young girl and boy towards her.   
Weaver nods and walks outside to explain the situation.   
>Through the glass panel I see the mother shake her head in defiance before collapsing to the ground in a cloud of tears. A sight I've seen too many times. I begin to clean up the body in preparation for the family to say their final goodbyes when Luka indicates towards the clock on the wall.   
"Didn't you have somewhere to be?"   
It's eight-twenty. I made it through my shift.   
"Umm yeah," I reply.   
"Then go, I can take it from here."   
I thank him and head off to the lounge to change before punching out.

My palms are sweaty as I climb the stairs and prepare to take the blue line all the way up to O'Hare. My head is buzzing with a hundred and one thoughts as I step onto the train and find a seat. If Carter walks off that plane in around ninety minutes time then that changes everything. I exhale audibly and the guy in the next seat gives me an odd look. I daren't let myself believe that I'm about to see Carter, the Carter that's been stuck in the Congo for months, _my_ Carter. Sometimes it's scary to hope too much.

The train empties out a lot and by the time we reach O'Hare I'm the only passenger in the carriage. I step out onto the platform, shaking. Taking a deep breath I hurry off into the airport, there's not much time and I still have to find the correct terminal.

Twenty minutes later I still haven't found the correct location and I'm becoming increasingly worried that I'll miss the flight. Nothing seems to fit. I know that in the past he's had transfers in London or Paris so I figure any planes from those cities are likely candidates. However, the next flight from Paris arrives at midnight and London's flight is due in at eleven-thirty. Maybe his plane was delayed? A rising panic sets in as I realize that it's nearly ten o'clock. I run up to an information desk and catch the bored looking woman's attention.   
"Excuse me, I'm trying to meet a flight from the Congo that's due in at ten."   
"Just a moment Ma'am."   
She types on a keyboard and browses through the list that appears on the screen.   
"I'm afraid there's nothing arriving from that location until Thursday," she informs me.   
"There might have been a transfer in Europe, maybe Paris or London," I babble.   
She shakes her head, "I'm sorry there's nothing due in from the Congo via any route."   
My face drops. I thank her quietly and shuffle away. 

I wander aimlessly for a few moments before dropping into a seat. The LCD display to my right insensitively informs me that it's ten p.m. A "Welcome To Chicago" poster adorns the adjacent wall and I stare at it long and hard; trace the outline of Sears tower with my gaze, count the flags on the Michigan Avenue bridge, note the tapered shape of the John Hancock Center, see the action taking place at Wrigley Field and spy the tiny people riding the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. The ferris wheel we danced beneath when Eric cajoled us. Chicago is a beautiful city. His son is going to adore it. My heart sinks. His son. The one he's having with someone else. I rest my head in my hands and exhale. It's over.

"Excuse me?" a voice speaks.   
I look up and see the blonde who I asked about the Congolese flight.   
"I made some more checks. There was a flight due in here from London that someone coming home from the Congo might have taken."   
I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue.   
"It got rerouted through New York City. It's due in at Midway at eleven-fifteen."   
I glance at my watch; ten-twenty. I have less than an hour to get there.   
Shooting out of my seat I thank the woman profusely and run for the el. 

The el train has never seemed to move more slowly. It's eleven o'clock and we're still five minutes out. I've so much nervous energy I can't even sit down. It has to be his flight, hasn't it? This has to be him coming home. I think back to the messages on my answer machine. To those three little words he used, those three little words that neither one of us dared to breath when he was still here with me but were every day implied.

On alighting from the train I dart into Midway and grab the first baggage handler I see.   
"Which terminal for the flight from London?"   
"Terminal three," he replies, "it's on the runway now."   
Thanking him I run off in that direction, towards a small group of people also awaiting passengers. People begin walking through the exit gate and embracing family members and soon the area is all but empty.   
I frantically scan around me, worried that I might have missed him but there's nobody there. I turn back around to the gate and suddenly there he is. My Carter. He looks tired, tanned and emaciated but the second his eyes catch mine he starts beaming. And I let myself go. I sprint towards him and jump up, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist and capture his lips with my own, lips I never thought I would touch again. 

We break apart breathlessly and I note that my own tears are reflected in his eyes.   
"Welcome home stranger."   
"I thought I'd never see you again," he pants, "I'm sorry Abby, I'm sorry about how I left, I'm sorry I ever thought I could walk away from…"   
"Shh," I hush him placing a finger to his lips, "it doesn't matter, none of it matters anymore."   
I pull him into a hug, holding him tightly, barely believing this is real. He kisses my cheek and I turn my head to allow him to seize my lips once more. A wave of happiness cascades over me and I know that I've never been as content as I am at this moment. He's not the only one who's arrived home. 


End file.
